


home is where this heart belongs

by cathly



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And HBO Can Fuck Right Off, Arya Makes Healthier Choices, Bittersweet, Episode Fix-it: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, Gen, Ghost Stays, Ghost's POV, Happy Ending, Jon Is Only Unhappy Some Of The Time, Nostalgia, The Starks Also Deserved Better, Theon Greyjoy Lives, ghost deserved better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:36:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18792187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathly/pseuds/cathly
Summary: Home is different, now. The corridors are quieter. The rooms are emptier.Once upon a time, there would be laughter. Once upon a time, there would be voices drifting through the hallways, footsteps echoing off the walls.Once upon a time, Jon would be by Ghost’s side.*(Or: Ghost stays in Winterfell. With time, all wounds mend.)





	home is where this heart belongs

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "Home" by Jake Isaac. English is not my first language. If you'd like, come visit me at my personal [tumblr hell com](http://cathly.tumblr.com). I apologize for posting this twice. I messed something up.

*

 

Home is different, now. The corridors are quieter. The rooms are emptier.

Once upon a time, there would be laughter. Once upon a time, there would be voices drifting through the hallways, footsteps echoing off the walls.

Once upon a time, there would be Little Rickon, playing in his room with Shaggydog. Little Rickon would shriek and laugh and run quickly on his little feet, and Shaggydog would run by his side, watching his every step. And at night, Little Rickon would sleep with one little hand curled in Shaggydog’s tangled fur and Shaggydog would think warm, warm thoughts.

Once upon a time, there would be Little Bran, climbing up the walls and onto the roofs, his eyes curious and bright, while Summer chased after birds and rats, pretending not to worry. On the rainy days, Little Bran would wander restlessly, pensive and unhappy, but Summer would always stay by his side, and from time to time, he would touch Little Bran’s little hand with his nose, and Little Bran would smile and smile.

Once upon a time, there would be Nymeria’s Arya, practicing in the courtyard with her bow. Every once in a while, she would pick an arrow of a different kind and pull the string of the bow only halfway back, and Nymeria would jump high in the air, trying to catch the arrow in flight. There would be laughter, then, and there would be cheering and clapping, filling all the rooms to the brim, and even Lord Stark would smile and pet Nymeria’s shiny fur.

Once upon a time, there would be Lady Sansa, embroidering or reading about kings and queens, with Lady curled up by her feet, content and warm. Lady Sansa would sing, sometimes, her voice swirling in the hallways and spinning in the rooms, and Lady Catelyn would pause just for a moment to listen, letting the melody quiet down her troubled heart.

Once upon a time, there would be Lord Robb, play-fighting with Lord Theon, while Grey Wind looked after them both. They would use wooden swords and their laughter would flow across the courtyard and over the walls. Lord Robb would win, most of the time, but then they would move on to arrows and bows.

Once upon a time, there would be Lord Stark and Lady Catelyn. Lord Stark would wander through the godswood every morning, speaking to his gods, while Grey Wind would stand guard. Lady Catelyn would wander through the corridors every night, fingertips trailing over the walls, following the rivulets of heat that flow through the stone, until all her children were safe in their beds. She would check on Lady Sansa last and only then would Lady leave her side, settling in the foot of Lady Sansa’s bed.

Once upon a time, there would be laughter. Once upon a time, there would be peace.

Once upon a time, Jon would be by Ghost’s side.

 

*

 

Lady Sansa no longer sings and she no longer embroiders, and she has no time for stories about kings and queens. Her voice, however, remains kind. Her hands remain kinder still. She is patient with the blood and with the hurt, patient with the fur that is tangled and torn, patient even with the miserable growling that happens from time to time.

Lady Sansa no longer sings and she no longer embroiders, but she wanders through the corridors every night, fingertips trailing over the walls, following the rivulets of heat that flow through the stone. Ghost follows, watching out for shadows that hide in the dark, and when the sadness weighs too heavy, he pushes his nose against Lady Sansa’s hand and sometimes, just sometimes, Lady Sansa smiles and smiles.

 

*

 

Nymeria’s Arya no longer belongs to Nymeria. Now she belongs to nothing and no one, wears her loneliness over her shoulders like a cloak and on her head like a crown. Her laughter no longer flows through the corridors, her arrows no longer miss their targets. She practices with her bow at every dawn, pulling the string all the way back, quiet as a shadow and still as stone, until arrows are splitting other arrows, until the quiver is empty and her shoulders bend under the ache she tries hard not to feel.   

Ghost sits with her, watches the arrows as they fly. When she is finally done, Arya often sits by his side.

Together and in silence, they watch the sun rise.

 

*

 

Little Bran is older now, his curiosity quenched. He no longer climbs up the walls and onto the roofs, and he no longer smiles. In the godswood, he speaks to his ravens, while Ghost stands guard. In the quietness of his room, he looks out of the window or into the flames, while Ghost sits by his side, trying and failing to keep his feet warm.

“I’m sorry, Ghost,” Bran says. For a moment, his eyes are once again warm, once again kind. “I'm sorry about Summer.”

Summer was always very brave.

“Yes,” Bran says, already slipping away, away,  _away_. “He was.”

 

*

 

In his dreams, Ghost wanders through a castle where the ceilings hang high and the walls run cold. Loneliness always follows, barely a step away, tugging at his shoulders until they hunch, tugging at his legs until they drag. There are no forests in sight, not for miles and miles, and the sea is quiet and vast.

 

*

 

Time passes. Days grow longer, grow warmer. There is far less blood, now, and far less hurt.

 

*

 

It’s warm in the woods, sunny and quiet. Ghost runs and runs and runs, paws no longer catching against the sharp cool of snow. The forest floor is soft with spring, flowers only just beginning to rise, and the wind plays in the trees in a cheerful whistle rather than a morbid howl.

Ghost runs and runs and runs, wishing Nymeria was running with him too, wishing for Grey Wind’s strength and for Summer’s bravery, for Shaggydog’s impatient growl and for Lady’s tuneful howl.

  
*

 

Lady Sansa no longer sings and she no longer has time for stories about kings and queens, but she embroiders again. Ghost curls up by her feet, content and warm, while Lady Sansa works every morning and every night, just for a little while, just enough for it to put a smile on her face.

She works on a pair of gloves as Ghost rests his head on her knees, making sure the needle remains obedient in her hold. And when she finishes her work, she brings the gloves to Lord Theon, whose hands tremble a little as he tries them on, the embroidered sigils of Home coming to rest against the inner sides of his wrists, where blood runs steady and warm. He glances up at Lady Sansa and he smiles. Ghost pushes his nose against Lady Sansa’s hand. Lady Sansa smiles back.

 

*

 

Arya still practices with her bow at every dawn, but more often than not, she is not alone. Brienne the Knight is usually with her, tossing apples in the air while Arya struggles to hit every single one before they fall back onto the ground. She shares the apples with the guards, later, and they thank her and joke and laugh, and more often than not, Arya laughs with them, too.

Every once in a while, she looks to Ghost and picks an arrow of a different kind, one that runs slower through the air, bouncing off the target rather than hitting it, and Ghost jumps, trying very hard to catch it in flight. He misses, every single time, but Arya still smiles.

 

*

 

Bran tells stories, sometimes. Usually late at night, when Ghost settles in the foot of his bed, both of them watching the shadows dance on the walls. Most of the stories, Ghost doesn’t understand. These are the stories of times past, of worlds that no longer exist. He still listens, though, as Bran’s quiet voice drifts around him, rising higher and dropping lower, flowing out of the room and wandering through the corridors, climbing up the walls and onto the roofs.

And sometimes, Bran tells stories of a different kind. These are the stories about Summer, about Little Rickon and about Shaggydog, about Meera the Brave and Jojen the Wise.

“And Hodor was with them, too,” Bran says. “Please, Ghost, don’t forget that.”

Hodor loved Little Bran and Little Rickon, and Summer, and Shaggydog.

“Yes,” Bran says. His hand, tangled in Ghost’s fur, is warm. His eyes are kind.  “He did.”

 

*

 

Jon comes to visit, sometimes.

Jon comes to visit and he kneels by Ghost’s side, burying his fingers deep in the fur that is no longer bloodied and no longer torn. He rests his head against Ghost’s, and Ghost lets him, just for a little while. He tries, as hard as he can, to scare all the loneliness away, and sometimes, when Jon straightens as he steps back, his shoulders are no longer hunched, his feet no longer drag.

 

*

 

Arya is practicing in the courtyard with her bow as Brienne the Knight tosses apples in the air. Lady Sansa is there as well, humming to herself as she embroiders, on a silver-grey cloak this time, only it’s not just the sigil of Home, but also a sigil with a black stag. Arya huffs at her, sometimes, but Lady Sansa pays her no mind. By Lady Sansa’s side is Lord Theon, watching her with a soft smile, and Arya’s Gendry, whose gaze Arya catches from time to time.

Soon, Jon will come. His dreams are of northern forests now and his loneliness is already falling a few steps behind.

Bran is watching them all with kind, kind eyes. He tells a story Ghost doesn’t understand, a story of times past and of worlds that no longer exist, and everyone listens, and then everyone laughs. It’s enough, by far, to fill all empty rooms.

Arya looks to Ghost, their shared loneliness all swallowed down, and she reaches for an arrow of a different kind.

The sun rises. Arya pulls the string only halfway back.

Ghost jumps high, high,  _high_.

 

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥


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